


Unnamed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Free!
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Makoto has a polite welcome on his lips as he pulls at the handle, is ready with a smile and a greeting regardless of how his hopes line up with reality. Then he looks up to the stranger’s face, takes in the black hair over bright teal eyes, and everything goes still and cold in the first wave of horror." When anonymity fails, Makoto more than makes do with what is left to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnamed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bouenkyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouenkyou/gifts).



The knock on the hotel room door comes two minutes late.

It’s not like Makoto is counting. It’s more that there’s nothing else to do in the room but wait, and waiting means staring at the clock until the glowing digital numbers flick over to a new display. There’s nothing else by way of ornamentation -- no windows, no television, just a token chair and small desk and the bed itself, of course. Makoto’s staring at that now, considering his decisions up until this point and trying to decide why he’s having trouble mustering regret.

It might just be desperation. Studying takes  _time_ , and while Makoto is decent at balancing his social life and academic responsibilities, it’s easy to let the latter take over when he doesn’t have much by way of demands on his time. Even months after his last breakup he can’t quite get the hang of flirtation, ends up accidentally ‘just-friends’ with everyone he might consider as a possibility, and it’s not that he’s  _anxious_  for sex as much as. Well. It’s  _nice_ , it’s a lot more fun than occasionally jerking off, and if he’s honest with himself the idea of having a romantic interlude with a total stranger is interesting, sounds like the sort of reckless spontaneity Makoto has always wanted to embody and never quite managed.

It seemed like a good idea,  _seems_  like a good idea even now, as he watches the display flicker into a new orientation again. At least if he gets stood up no one else will ever know.

The knock comes then, before he has a chance to more than briefly consider the possibility. The worry fades from his thoughts, crowded out by the surge of heart-stopping adrenaline that nearly sends Makoto sprawling when he tries to stand up too quickly and gets his foot caught under the edge of the chair. He catches his balance, takes a moment to ruffle a hand through his hair and needlessly adjust his glasses; then there’s nothing else to do but to go and open the door.

Makoto has a polite welcome on his lips as he pulls at the handle, is ready with a smile and a greeting regardless of how his hopes line up with reality. The very first thing to hit him upon seeing his partner is relief, appreciation of the breadth of the shoulders in front of him and how tight the black t-shirt fits across the definition of muscle. Then he looks up to the stranger’s face, takes in the black hair over bright teal eyes, and everything goes still and cold in the first wave of horror.

“Oh no,” Makoto says. The stranger -- less a stranger than he was  _supposed_  to be -- rocks back slightly, effectively answering the question of whether he remembers Makoto although there’s no identifiable reaction in his face. Those bright eyes are still fixed on Makoto’s own, still just as appealing as they were originally and far,  _far_  less welcome than they were in high school.

“Well.” Makoto can hear the edgy whine creeping into his voice, swallows himself back to his normal register as best he can. “This is awkward.”

“Are you going to let me in?” There’s less aggression there than Makoto remembers, just a flat question so direct it overrides rationality, pushes Makoto aside with a “Sorry!” before he has even thought through the motion. The other pushes past him, not even glancing or nodding in acceptance of the apology, but he’s gentle enough that when his shoulder clips Makoto’s it leaves more heat than hurt. Makoto turns to stare after him, keeps staring as the other toes his shoes off, fishes his phone out of his pocket and turns it to silent before depositing it on the table.

“Shut the door,” he says, and Makoto does, too adrift from the circumstances to think through why he shouldn’t. There’s a shift of shoulders, fingers closing on the bottom edge of that black t-shirt, and then motion too quick for Makoto to follow before he’s confronted with  _far_  more skin than he was ready for.

“Are --” he starts, stops, swallows. “You still want to…?”

The other turns around, idly balling his shirt in his hands before he tosses it onto the chair. His shoulders are even better from the front, all smooth tan and clean definition without any trace of the visibly painful swelling Makoto remembers from the last time they met.

“So--” Makoto starts again, unsure even what he’s going to say before he’s cut off.

“No names.” Those eyes are on him again, dragging deliberately down from his face to his chest until Makoto’s cheeks start to burn with delayed-reaction embarrassment. “Like we agreed.”

“But--”

He’s turning away again, reaching out to press a hand into the mattress. “Did you bring lube and condoms?”

“Of course,” Makoto manages, although his blush is darkening until he can feel it tightening his throat into awkwardness. “I said I would.”

“Good.” The other is turning back from the bed, fitting his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tipping his chin down so his eyes are glowing from the shadows. Makoto’s eyes drop from his face again -- he  _can’t_  meet the intensity of those eyes -- back down over the other’s chest, the flat tautness of his stomach and all the way down to the sharp jut of hipbones down to the waistline of his jeans.

“Is it because of your shoulder?” he hears himself asking without thinking. “That you said you prefer to bottom?”

There’s a sound, raw and rough until Makoto isn’t sure if it’s intended as a growl or a laugh. “I prefer to bottom because I  _prefer to bottom_.” A breath, a pause. “And there’s  _nothing_  noteworthy about my shoulder at all. Do you want to talk or do you want to fuck?”

Makoto flinches at the last word, the brutal directness of it. Those blue eyes are still trained on him, are starting to feel like they’re burning. “I.”

“Because I didn’t come here to make small talk with a  _stranger_.” There’s pointed emphasis on the last word, an unsubtle reminder, and then he’s coming forward, striding over the minimal distance between them until there’s nowhere for Makoto to look but at his skin or his eyes or his mouth. Makoto’s heart is hammering in his chest, panic surging shaky into his fingertips, and this close he can hear the pace of the other’s breathing too, undermining at least a little of the act he’s putting on.

“I’m good at kissing,” he says, and for a moment it reads as a non-sequitur before Makoto gets his bearings on the implication. His gaze catches on the other’s mouth, the shape of his lips as he speaks, and maybe it’s the desperation and maybe it’s a half-formed unacknowledged childhood crush and maybe it’s just that he’s  _hot_ , he’s hotter than Makoto thought he could reasonably expect from tonight. Regardless, when the other starts to say, “If that’s something you  _did_  want to do,” it’s Makoto that leans forward to press their mouths together.

Makoto moves fast -- from the way the other flinches back, he’s expecting bruising impact, the desperate attack of a teenager. But Makoto isn’t  _that_  desperate, not enough to leave technique behind when that’s what he’s best at, and for all that he comes in quickly the actual contact is gentle, careful and sliding while he fits his mouth into place. The other -- a stranger in name if not in fact -- pauses for a moment, startled into stillness, but that declaration sounded a little like a dare, and this isn’t a competition Makoto particularly wants to back down from. He lets his mouth open slightly, the suggestion clear in the action, lifts one hand to the back of the other’s neck and one to settle against the smooth curve of his waist. Dark hair brushes soft under his fingertips, the short-shorn ends feather-light against his palm when he shifts, and then the other is reacting again. A hand matches Makoto’s, thumb and finger feeling out the bottom edge of his ribcage, but the other closes on the edge of his shirt and sweater, shove up to bare skin to the comfortable warmth of the room. It’s not the temperature that sends a shiver over Makoto’s skin, not even the scrape of fingernails across his newly-exposed hip; it’s the catch of teeth at his mouth, the drag of gentle friction against his lower lip. When he opens his mouth farther he’s rewarded instantly with the slide of tongue against his, ticklish motion over the roof of his mouth, and he’s just starting to reciprocate when the hand against his skin slides up, high over his ribcage and pushing his shirt up as it goes.

“You planning to keep this on?” There’s another touch at his mouth, a brush of damp at his upper lip and Makoto pulls in closer, turns the fleeting contact into a real kiss. He can taste coffee and sugar, the lingering heat of the beverage and the warmth of the other’s mouth blending together. Then he pulls back, lets his hands slide free so he can lift his arms in silent offering. The collar of his sweater catches his glasses as it comes free; Makoto pulls the frames off entirely, carefully tosses them to land atop the rolled-up shirt on the chair.

“You look good in those.”

Makoto’s not expecting the compliment, certainly not expecting the undercurrent of past-tense reference under the words. But when he looks back there’s no acknowledgment in the other’s gaze, just sincerity.

“I could keep them on,” he offers. “I don’t need them, but…”

That gets him a headshake, short and sharp. “It doesn’t matter.” The fingers at his waist lift free, come down to tug at the front of the other’s jeans. “You look fine without them too.” A button slides free, a zipper comes down, and the other is moving away, bending at the waist and bracing himself against Makoto’s hip while he steps free of his jeans. Makoto starts to flush in borrowed self-consciousness but the other looks perfectly calm as he straightens, his gaze direct and totally unconcerned with the amount of skin he’s baring.

“ _Oh_.” Makoto licks his lips, swallows hard. “Have you done this before?”

That gets a reaction, draws tension into the other’s arm. Makoto can feel the fingers at his skin dig into his hip as if the wrong word could get him shoved away. “I thought you said you weren’t a virgin.”

Makoto’s skin lights up like he’s burning, the heat in his blood flaring too hot and uncontrolled. “ _What_? I’m  _not_ , I. What does that have to do with…?” He coughs, looks away so he can attempt and fail to get his blush under control. “I haven’t done  _this_  before.”

“You’ve never fucked a stranger?” He’s still staring, Makoto can feel the cool judgment of those eyes against his skin. “It’s easy.” There’s warmth against Makoto’s cheek, breath brushing across his skin, and then lips at his ear, so close the other can whisper and the words still come clear. “Just like normal sex.” A pull at Makoto’s jeans, fingers closing on his waistband. Makoto doesn’t pull away, doesn’t look up; he shuts his eyes, reaches out to brush his fingertips against the other’s skin to track the shift of muscle as his jeans are gently worked open. “I’ll lie down on the bed for you, make it simple.” Fingers slide past the opened denim, press in against the front of Makoto’s boxers to feel out his half-hard length. “All you have to do is stick your dick in me. You can do  _that_  much, can’t you?”

It’s hard to make out the sarcasm on the words, with how softly they are spoken. Makoto doesn’t need to hear the tone to identify the meaning, though, doesn’t need to be told that he’s being mocked. It’s perfectly clear, clear enough that defensive irritation wins out over the threat of embarrassment and shifts his gentle touch into the dig of fingers into skin.

“I  _can_.” He pushes, shoves away the sound of breathing at his ear. It’s not a hard push, not enough to upset the other’s balance, but it does catch a startled huff of a laugh as the other retreats to the bed. He drops to sit on the mattress, spreads his legs wide in invitation, but Makoto is stepping in first, reaching out to take charge quickly enough that the other’s motions don’t quite have time to steal dominance from him. His fingers sink into dark hair, ruffle the locks into further disarray, and if those blue eyes are still sharp and considering the other goes smoothly enough when pulled, parts his lips to lick against Makoto’s chest as his head is pulled in close.

“How do you prefer?” Makoto asks. With blue eyes covered by dark hair his blush is unseen, the fainter for the lack of audience. “I can give you the lube or I can do it myself.”

“Mm.” A tongue drags across his stomach, a head dips until the damp can catch the edge of Makoto’s navel. “You do it.” The other hooks his thumbs in under the elastic of his briefs, shifts his weight to start sliding them off his hips. Makoto can’t help looking down to catch a glimpse of dark-flushed skin before the lips at his skin pull away, the heat of contact vanishes as the other twists away to roll face-down across the bed. His eyes are hidden against the sheets, leaving nothing but the smooth gold of his skin and the dark of his hair for Makoto’s view, but that’s more than enough to catch Makoto’s attention into a breathless moment of staring. He collects himself before the other does more than tip his head to glance at him sideways, looks away and down so he can push his jeans off his hips. It doesn’t make sense that he should be self-conscious of how little he’s wearing, not when it’s barely less than he wears to swim, close enough to equivalent to what the other has seen of him already in the past they’re not acknowledging. And there’s so much already on display, warm tan waiting for his touch, and at least that is enough to keep him moving around the freezing force of anxiety in his veins so he can retrieve the bottle from the pocket of his abandoned jeans.

It’s easier as he gets on the bed, easier once he’s made even casual contact with the inside of the other’s leg. It’s just incidental, the bump of a knee to a thigh, but the lack of reaction in the other’s body is a comfort, lets him set aside the situation and the unspoken history and fall into the ease of habit, the motions familiar enough that even with a new partner his hands stay steady under the cool slick of liquid. It’s like he’s stepping into his other self, the one comfortable in the breadth of his shoulders and easy with the strength of his body, so when he pushes down against the curve of hip it’s deliberate and bracing instead of nervous and jumpy.

“Tilt your hips up,” and his voice is unfamiliar too, the low resonance of his natural tone without any of the squeaking chirp of emotion. The other obeys immediately, reaches out to brace himself against the mattress and arches his spine to angle off the bed. Makoto pushes his fingers in against the other’s skin, strokes slick over warm skin.

“Just do two,” the other says, muffled against the pillow. He’s starting to go tense at last, strain rising in the support of his thighs, and Makoto can’t hear his breathing but he can see how fast it’s coming in the faint motion in the other’s shoulders, in the anticipation crackling under the bracing of his arms. “This isn’t my first time, I can take it.”

“Yeah,” Makoto says, “You mentioned.” When he twists his wrist it’s to ease two fingers into the other, to push his hand forward and draw a gasping breath of forced relaxation as his fingers slide in up to the knuckle.

“Jesus.” The word is muffled but the motion is clear, a rocking slide backwards over the sheet so the other is pushing in against Makoto’s hand. “ _Harder_.”

“I’ll hurt you,” Makoto protests, and keeps moving slowly, easing the pressure of the other’s body open around his fingers. He can see the shudder through the smooth shoulders in front of him, the tension sweeping through the other’s spine in spite of how gently he’s moving. His movements slow even further, his attention draws into the heat around his fingers and the visible tremble under the other’s skin, and after a few carefully experimental thrusts he is offered the gratification of the tension shattering into a gasp, the twist of the other’s head to shoot a superheated glance at him.

“ _More_ ,” he growls, as vicious with the word as if he’s not trembling under Makoto’s fingers. “Do you want me to  _beg_?”

“No.” Makoto eases his fingers back, tries one more push just to make sure he has it right, just to see the flutter of dark eyelashes over bright eyes. “No, it’s fine.” He’s careful withdrawing his fingers, gentle on the pull as much as he was on the push, even though the other is hissing and shaking against the support of the mattress.

He doesn’t move when Makoto slides off the bed, offers no protest beyond a head tipped so sea-blue eyes can watch the other’s movements as he fishes the condom from the pocket of his jeans, slides his boxers free and slides the thin covering over himself with more experience than grace. At least Makoto doesn’t need to delay further than that; his palm is still slick with lube, smoothing out the drag of his hand over himself into a slip almost too frictionless to be satisfying. He’s watching the ripple of abortive movement across the other’s broad shoulders, lost in the arch of spine and the tip of hips, until he thinks he really might be about to hear pleading before he lets himself go, steps back in to touch soothing fingers against the sharp line of hip.

The other goes still, thrumming with anticipation that would be intimidating if Makoto weren’t warm through and through with the same excitement, the same adrenaline of expectation. He drags his eyes down the curve of spine, across the perfect arch of waist into hip and down to thigh before his eyes come into focus properly, his attention drawing itself into precision. He moves slowly, careful to align his motions with his own visual input and the tiny quivers of tension in the other’s body, so when he presses forward there’s not even a momentary catch of misalignment; he’s just  _there_ , sliding into the warmth of the other’s body, and they’re both sighing in relief before Makoto has thrust entirely forward.

It’s a pleasure to watch the high-string  _want_  drain out of the shoulders in front of him. Makoto’s skin is flaring hot, rippling sensation flooding out to warm his cheeks and settle in his fingertips, but there’s the echo of relief under the feeling too, his own aching desire sighing into pleasure in time with the slump of satisfaction in the other’s body. Makoto is as conscientious as he always is, tries a careful second thrust before he tips forward to brace himself so he can slide his free hand around the other’s hip, but the worst of the sharp-edged desperation is gone even before he touches his fingertips against the flushed shape of the other’s cock. His mouth is nearly touching the curve of the other’s shoulder by the time he’s got his balance where he wants it; he’s breathing hard over warm skin, close enough that he can even out his inhales to match the pace of the other’s. He can hear the hitch in the pace of their breathing when he fits his fingers around the other’s length, the hiccuping inhale as he strokes; then he starts to thrust, and all the absent tension comes back into the body under him. The shoulders jerk, stiffen until Makoto’s mouth is pressed to the heat of skin, and when he strokes again he can hear the whine of appreciation in the stuttered inhale.

He aligns his movements to that sound. It’s easier, he’s found, to speed the movement of his hips, or slow the slide of his fingers according to his partner’s reactions; it makes things easier, and his own heartbeat comes harder in his veins in response to breathless encouragement from the other. But this is different, every gasping moan sounds like a hard-won victory and every shiver comes after tight-wound tension as if the other is resisting the pleasure, trying to fight off the edge of satisfaction. It makes every reaction a triumph, makes every gasp shoot the pleasure of victory direct into Makoto’s blood until he’s shaking as badly as the other, want and anticipation beating so hard under his pulse he’s not sure he can  _last_.

He’s just starting to truly worry, to consider slowing his rhythm for his own sake, when there’s a choking inhale against the sheets, a desperate fist of fingers on fabric. Makoto nearly goes still from surprise -- he didn’t realize how close the other was -- but reflex keeps his hand moving, keeps his hips rocking smoothly, and he’s rewarded with a nameless groan against the mattress, the shiver of satisfaction through the body under him and the spill of come across his fingers. The secondhand pleasure turns into vicarious heat in his blood, like it always does, runs up again the tremble of sensation around him and his already-flushed skin so his vision is starting to go hazy before he’s even let his hold go. It’s only at the last moment he thinks to shut his mouth, to bite back the name familiarity offers to his lips so it turns into a hiss instead of coherency. He only has a moment to panic, to press his tongue to his teeth and flinch back the acknowledgment; then he’s lost, all his body shivering over into heat, and if he says anything intelligible it’s lost to the ringing in his ears as pleasure drowns out everything but the rhythm of his heartbeat and the flush of his skin.

Neither of them speaks while Makoto catches his breath, while the shift of the other’s hips under him prompts him to pull back and away. Makoto stays on the bed, caught between warm afterglow and awkward self-consciousness until the sound of running water from the other room signals some modicum of almost-privacy. He dresses faster than usual, cleaning himself up and tugging his clothes back on so he’s fully covered by the time the other rounds the corner again, only the rumpled mess of his hair left to speak to their interlude. That gets him a raised eyebrow, a huffed laugh rather more at his expense than otherwise, but at least Makoto feels somewhat more secure with a t-shirt, can appreciate the view as the other unhurriedly puts his own clothes back on without a trace of self-consciousness.

Then there’s just the two of them, no more skin showing between them than is reasonable and nothing left to say or do. Makoto realizes he’s been standing still, realizes he’s been  _staring_ , is just opening his mouth to form an apology when a voice cuts him off.

“Is there paper in here?”

“What?” Makoto glances hastily around, like there’s anything to see beyond the bed and the chair and the desk. “Oh. Yes.” He starts to move for the desk, reaching for the pen and paper there, but the other beats him to it, hunches in over the surface so his shoulders form an effective wall. Makoto hesitates, retreats, backs up until he’s almost against the opposite side of the room while he waits for the other to do whatever it is he is doing.

It only takes a minute. Then those shoulders are straightening, those hands are sliding back into pockets; there’s a flicker of blue, a sideways glance, and then “See ya,” before the other moves towards the door.

Makoto wants to say something.  _Thanks_  or  _wait_  or  _can I see you again_  all seem appropriate, all seem too little or too much at once. He’s left standing with his mouth open on all those silent options, stalling until the click of the door latch signals the missed opportunity.

At least he doesn’t have much to collect. There’s his glasses, still on the chair alongside the desk; the rest of the mess is minimal, just tangled sheets that make him flush from how obvious they feel. He tries not to think about it, turns his back to the bed as he settles his glasses in place, and it’s then that the sharp lines on the white pad of paper catch his attention.

It’s a phone number, of course, outlined clear on the page in the textual equivalent of a shout, and underneath it words in that same dark handwriting.

_Makoto. Call me. -- Sousuke_

Makoto reaches out to touch the letters, to brush his fingertips over the shape of Sousuke’s name on the page as he forms the syllables silent on his tongue. Then he dips his head, as if there’s anyone there to see the smile that breaks over his face as all the chill of awkwardness melts away into the flustered heat of joy.


End file.
